“I can’t believe I was on that snake’s side,” Bill mumbles.
Zander turns towards the door, paper bag in hand, and I follow.
“Have a nice day, Bill.” Zander tosses over his shoulder, lacking sincerity.
I turn just in time to see Bill sneer at Zander’s farewell remark. I linger for a beat just inside the entrance to the small store. “Fuck off, Bill,” I chime from the door, like I just confessed my undying love for him.
Bill mumbles under his breath like old men do and we leave him to it.
Once we’re back on the sidewalk and walking at an easy pace back towards his Jeep, Zander smiles wide, melting my insides a little. Okay, a lot.
“What?” I ask, taking four steps per his two steps.
Zander shakes his head, looking down. “You. That’s what.”
“Elaborate.”
“Why would you say that to that crotchety old bastard?”
“Um, he was a dick?” I answer, sounding more like a question than a statement.
“Yeah, but he was a dick to me. Not you,” he adds.
“Yeah. So?” I shrug.
Zander shakes his head some more, chuckling under his breath.
“Sometimes I let off steam by acting like an asshole to people around me,” I admit, ashamed of my less than honorable actions.
“I get that. Trust me, I get that.” Zander nods, looking lost in thought.
I had thought about explaining myself, but it seems that it’s unnecessary. He understands, I guess. He’s the first person that hasn’t given a look of pity or disapproval when they witness my snide remarks firsthand. Most everyone cringes and looks at me like I’m some errant child. It’s so hard for people to understand that I’m angry at life, not any one particular person.
He doesn’t bother trying to explain what was at the root of the unfriendly exchange. I’m not too sure that it’s any of my business, but curiosity wins out over propriety.
I replay the unpleasant exchange in my head while we drive in comfortable silence. Why would that guy have a problem with Zander’s dad? He hasn’t even mentioned much about his family to me. After milling it over in my head, it does seem peculiar that a heart transplant recipient wouldn’t have family breathing down his neck all the time. I can’t get a moment of peace from my family and friends and somehow Zander has found a way to completely isolate himself. I have to admit that it makes me a tad jealous and even more curious about this enigma that is Alexander McBride.
McBride?
His name sounds so damn familiar; it’s like a connection between the man and the name is just on the tip of my tongue. I make a mental note to search the internet for more information at some point. Google will shed some light on the reason his name sounds so familiar.
As if reading my mind, Zander peeks over at me in the passenger seat. “Penny for your thoughts?”
I shake my head from side to side, doing my best to pretend like my mind isn’t racing with an entire line of intrusive questions.
“Okay. Okay,” he says with a smirk on his lips, holding his free hand up in mock surrender. “I get it. I can appreciate the need for privacy.”
We round the corner and cross the road nearing Zander’s stretch of beach. Our silent drive comes to an end once we are back at his beach house. We climb the stairs and he leads me to the wet bar off of his living room. Pulling out a stool, he prompts me to sit.
“Red okay?”
“Red wine is perfect.” I slide myself onto the cool high gloss barstool and watch as he moves fluidly behind the bar, pulling everything he needs from cabinets and drawers. He pours my glass of red wine and cracks open a bottle of water for himself, pouring it over ice in a glass tumbler.
Seeing him so focused and attentive like this awakens that nagging primal desire that dwells deep down. For the millionth time, I resent my stupid female body for finding him so attractive. I resent him for being so attractive. It makes me angry at myself and a little bit more convinced that I may be truly insane. I’m off my goddamn rocker.
***
When he said golfing, I hadn’t pictured this. He’s just pulled his man toy Jeep into the parking lot with a marquee that reads, “Adventure Island.” The letters are all lit up in a rainbow of colors. I scan the property to confirm that Zander has brought us to a teenage hangout and not a country club. Miniature golf obstacles dot the property, including a windmill, a mini cottage, and a crocodile with its mouth snapping open then shut. On the opposite side is an oblong racetrack complete with go-karts made to look like drag racers. It’s hilarious. I definitely didn’t expect Zander to come “golfing” here. A smile breaks out across my face as I turn in my seat to face him.
“This seems—ah—pretty legit for a former professional golfer,” I croon sarcastically, nodding my head.